The Mentalist: Red and Green
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Sequel to "She Wore a Red Ribbon." Jane and Lisbon return to Sacramento for Christmas, but danger finds them on the train ride home. Rated T for language and violence.  No copyright infringement intended.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wanted to write another Christmas fic, and this little AU world I created called me back. I never thought I'd write a sequel to "She Wore a Red Ribbon," but here it is. Those of you new to my fics should definitely read that story first. It is extreme AU, set in the old west, but I think the response to that fic shows that the original readers found it easy enough to take, so if you like my work, and would like to read this new story, it is imperative you read "She Wore a Red Ribbon" before continuing. 

Now then, if you have already read the first story, you should know that this sequel begins nine months after "Red Ribbon" left off. There is quite a bit of exposition (unfortunately?) but I felt it necessary to catch you up on what's been going on with our beloved characters. Please bear with me, and I promise the dialogue and action will steadily increase. Thanks for giving this continuation a go.

**Red and Green**

_**California: December, 1870**_

The most difficult part of travelling by public train was keeping his hands off his wife, Patrick Jane concluded, after perhaps the tenth time Teresa had swatted his wandering hands away.

"Mr. Jane," she whispered in her teacherly voice, which he secretly found infinitely enticing, "it is highly improper to display one's affections, even toward one's wife, in a public location." She glanced nervously to the older couple sitting across the aisle, who occasionally regarded her and her husband with equal parts knowing amusement and disapproval.

He leaned closer to her—in complete defiance of her edict—and whispered in her ear. She shivered at the sensuality of his tone, at the suggestive nature of his words.

"I don't recall you complaining about my _improper affections _yesterday morning, when you were riding me like a-"

"Jane!" she gasped, then clamped her hand over her mouth when their neighbors rewarded her outburst with a sharp look.

Her face flushed scarlet at both his words and the memory, and she sat up straighter, adjusting her hat self-consciously, purposefully looking out the window as if suddenly fascinated by the golden landscape of the California hills.

Jane chuckled softly next to her, but obediently kept his hands to himself, keeping them occupied by picking up his novel, Mr. Jules Vern's _Around the Moon,_ from his lap. He felt better now that she was perhaps sharing his pain and suffering.

For the past nine months they had been travelling all over California, Oregon, and Nevada on the Ruskin Family Circus train, where they'd had their own private car. He was used to making love to her to the gentle swaying of a train, so it was hardly his fault that trains now made him a little…randy.

"It's so nice that Grace and Wayne have invited us home for Christmas," Teresa said a few minutes later, having quickly forgiven him his indiscretions. His eyes still on his book, he absently turned the page.

"It's still your house, sweetheart," he reminded her.

Teresa was letting the newlyweds stay in her family home while she and Jane traveled with his first wife's family circus. Since the circus train was heading south to winter near Rancho Malibu, this was the perfect time for them to see her family and friends back in Sacramento. The train had let them off in San Francisco on its way, so Jane and Teresa had taken a public train from there for the ride to Teresa's hometown. Jane himself had made friends there with Wayne, Grace, and Kimball, and while he was looking forward to seeing them, he also remembered his last visit with some trepidation.

He'd killed Red John, but word had come via a letter from Grace that Grace's butler, Stiles, had been implicated in the death of the last of Red John's gang, Jared Renfrew. The missing gold bars from the gang's foiled bank heist had never been found. Even though he had plenty of pleasant memories of Sacramento, (namely that he'd met his new wife there) he had a feeling of deep dread at the prospect of returning. The fact that Bret Stiles could still be out there, a missing member of Red John's gang, perhaps bent on vengeance of his own, troubled Jane to say the least.

"I know it's my house," Teresa was saying, "but to have company might be very trying on Grace. She's eight months along, you know," she finished in a discreet whisper.

"Yeah, good old Rigsby didn't waste much time, did he?" Jane grinned wickedly.

It took all of Teresa's self-control not to drop her hand to her stomach. She was perhaps three months pregnant herself, and it was terribly difficult to keep secrets from Patrick Jane. But this would be her Christmas gift to him, so she only had to school her telltale actions for three more days. And to be perfectly honest with herself, she was a little nervous about how he was going to take the news. His first child had been murdered, so she could understand how her husband might have a heap of mixed emotions where a new baby was concerned. But whatever his reaction, Teresa's happiness was bountiful enough for the both of them.

She settled now for elbowing him meaningfully in the side. "Behave," she hissed.

Jane read another page or two, then dog-eared a corner and leaned back against his seat, pushing his gray hat low over his eyes in an attempt to grab a catnap. Teresa fished out her embroidery from the small bag at her feet, and tried to focus on finishing the holly embellished towel she was making for Grace. But her attention strayed unerringly to the tiny life within her, and she glanced at her napping husband before smiling secretly to herself.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane vaguely felt the train slow, then halt at one of the many train stations along the way, and he no longer paid attention to the brief commotion caused by departing and boarding passengers. He'd barely registered his wife moving past him, murmuring something about stretching her legs a moment, which in prim ladyspeak meant she needed to find the nearest water closet.

"You want me to go with you," he asked sleepily, moving his legs aside.

His overprotective nature both amused her and tugged at her heart.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Jane. Go back to sleep."

Then he sighed softly and closed his eyes again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bret Stiles had been watching the striking couple since they'd boarded the train right after him in San Francisco. His heart clenched in icy rage when he recalled how the peddler had ruined in a few minutes what had taken Stiles years to establish, how he'd killed his best lieutenant, the one responsible for filling his coffers for the past three years. Patrick Jane was not going to get away with it.

He'd followed the pair on their honeymoon trip to San Francisco. Followed them around the city as they went sight-seeing, then surprised him by falling in with circus folk and leaving with them on their train. He'd let them go, for the moment, but Stiles had friends all over the state, and he'd sent messages to them to let him know when the Ruskin Family Circus was in their area. In this way, he'd been able to monitor their moves until there came the perfect time to exact his revenge.

He'd laid low in San Francisco the past several months, growing a white beard that exactly matched the hair on his head in order to hide his new identity. He'd used that time and his ill-gotten gains to recruit and mesmerize more followers, this time not some rag-tag group of common thieves. No, his new gang would be much more subtle, infinitely more controllable. He'd established a new religion based on ancient cults, drawn in sad but wealthy widows and disillusioned businessmen to contribute to his mystical pursuit of spreading spiritual enlightenment. With his flowing white beard and long linen robes, he'd appeared to them as a modern day Moses. But before his real work could begin, Stiles had an old score to settle, a loose end that he must tie up before he could truly move on.

When he'd gotten word that the circus was in town again, he'd realized Patrick Jane's time had come at last.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was an unfortunate by-product of being with child that a lady must use the privvy much more often. It was especially awkward on a public train, and Teresa just knew Jane would become suspicious of her frequent visits and figure out her secret. She didn't like walking through the moving train cars to find the WC, for in her current state it riled up her stomach, so she was grateful there were so many stops on the way to Sacramento. She went into the small enclosure one car behind their own, quickly doing her business since most station stops took only ten to fifteen minutes.

When she came out of the small enclosure, it was to suddenly feel cold metal pressed into her side, a strong, warm hand gripping her arm almost painfully.

"Not a word or a sound, Mrs. Jane," came the soft, foreign voice in her ear, accompanied by the tickle of a beard against the back of her bare neck. "Act completely naturally and you won't be hurt."

The tall man pushed on the gun to guide her in the opposite direction of the car where her husband slept, and her heart began to pound erratically in shock and fear. She moved as he directed, and when she saw they were approaching the train car exit, she stiffened and contemplated screaming.

"Don't even consider it, my dear. I have other men training their weapons on Mr. Jane as we speak, and they are only awaiting my signal to blow his bloody head off. Understand?"

She nodded jerkily and allowed him to practically push her down the steps onto the train station platform. She took a deep breath, trying to restore her frazzled senses, and a feeling of calm at once settled over her. She spoke to her captor now as if he were one of her recalcitrant students.

"What do you want from me?" she demanded, her voice quiet yet commanding.

He only chuckled at her spirit. "For balance to be restored to the universe, of course," he replied silkily.

"Who are you?" she tried again.

"All will be revealed in time," came his maddeningly cryptic reply.

They were moving now through the crowded station, his strong hold on her remaining steady as he walked closely behind her. She had yet to see his face, but his properly accented voice told her he was England born, and she rifled through her memories to recall any Englishmen she had met who also had a beard. Her mind drew a blank. Whoever he was, she wished with all her heart that she had brought her reticule with her, for it contained her trusty Derringer.

But most of all, Teresa wished she'd tamped down her independent streak for once and asked her husband to accompany her to the water closet.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

When the train started again with a jolt, Jane instantly shot an arm out to the side to protect Teresa from falling forward, but he was surprised to find he was only holding back the air. He tipped back his hat and looked to his left, but the seat beside him was empty. He felt an unaccountable jolt of fear, but stifled it quickly, realizing she must still be in the lavatory. He remembered that when his first wife had been expecting, the water closet had been her frequent companion.

Of course he had figured out Teresa was expecting, perhaps before even she herself. In the few months they'd been together, he'd come to know her body as well as his own. He'd detected the subtle change in the size of her breasts, how they seemed fuller, even more sensitive than usual. She was so tiny through the waist that any additional pouching in her stomach was immediately noticeable, at least to him. But the biggest clue had been how there had been no respite in their lovemaking, no painfully long week in the last three months where he must restrain himself from touching her intimately.

Teresa was pregnant all right, and she knew it, but he could tell she was struggling with how she was going to break it to him. It touched him to think that she was worried that he wouldn't be happy, but he would let her find her own time to share the joyous news. In the meantime, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to shout his happiness to the world.

Five more minutes passed, and Jane rose to his feet, unable to quell his cautious nature. He walked casually down the aisles of the next two cars until he came to the WC, but he was startled to find it was unoccupied. Perhaps she had gone to a different car.

He turned to one of the passengers in a nearby seat, a young woman who was definitely not immune to his charming smile.

"Pardon me, Miss," he began, tipping his hat, "but did you happen to note a small brunette who recently visited the facilities? She hasn't returned to our car, and I admit to being mildly concerned. We're newly married, you see, and I can't bear to be away from her for long."

She returned his smile, her young, romantic heart impressed by the handsome man's obvious love for his wife.

"I'm afraid I just got on the train, sir. I've seen no one entering and exiting the, uh, room," she nodded toward the lavatory with a pretty blush.

"Thank you," he said, feeling his stomach drop a little. He looked around the car, and, propriety be damned, spoke to the passengers at large.

"Excuse me, but have any of you by chance seen my wife? She would have only just left this car, I imagine."

He brought out his pocket watch, opening it to show the tintype on the opposite side of the timepiece—a smiling Teresa on their wedding day. He knew he must sound desperate and more than a little pathetic, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was most definitely wrong.

Everyone looked at him blankly; few would likely have noticed a diminutive lady entering the car at the same time others had been arriving and leaving at the stop. A few patrons shook their heads and politely apologized. Then, a small voice near the front of the car spoke out.

"She went with Santa Claus," said the little boy of about five years. Jane turned to the child, whose mother looked thoroughly embarrassed.

"Now, Timmy, what have I told you about telling stories?" The woman looked up at Jane apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mister; he has quite the imagination."

"That's quite all right ma'am. But maybe in this case, he did see something." He squatted down in front of the boy, smiling benignly. "What exactly did you see, Timmy?" he asked, hoping to sound friendly and nonthreatening, while at the same time, his pulse raced. Suddenly bashful, little Timmy turned his face into his mother's arm. Still not looking at Jane, the child reached behind his back and drew out a small, colorfully illustrated copy of _A Visit from Saint Nicholas._

"She went with Santa Claus," Timmy reiterated, his voice muffled, but very insistent.

Jane held out his watch to the boy. "You saw this lady go with a man who looked like this?" he asked encouragingly, pointing to the jolly Christmas elf on the cover of the boy's book. "With a white beard?"

He peeped at the pictures, then nodded. "She smiled at me. She was pretty. Then Santa Claus came and they got down from the train."

Jane's eyes widened, his heart pounding. "They got off the train?" he asked tightly. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes, sir," Timmy replied, emboldened now that he was being taken seriously. Jane looked deeply into the child's eyes, recognizing the truth there with dawning horror.

Jane stood, shock making his moves unnaturally slow. His worst nightmare had come true; someone had abducted Teresa, and as the train chugged along, it suddenly clicked in his mind that with every second, they were moving swiftly away from any hope of finding her.

"I've got to get off this train," he muttered, looking out the window as the scenery sped past at what seemed to Jane a blindingly fast rate. He felt suddenly like he might hyperventilate, so he tried to breathe deeply, in and out, while he rushed through car after car in search of the conductor, anyone who could stop this godforsaken train.

He couldn't lose them. Not Teresa. Not the unborn child he had already come to love. If it took his last breath, there was no way Patrick Jane would allow history to repeat itself.

A/N: Let me state for the record that this is NOT a baby fic. I will NEVER write a baby fic. You will NEVER have a story from me describing a baby being born, or the main characters interacting with children of their own. I don't know why, but I've never liked baby fics of any kind. Oh, I'm sure there are quality ones out there somewhere, but I won't be seeking them out, and I definitely won't be reading them. Don't get me wrong, I love children. I'm a teacher. I have a child of my own. Just call it a personal failing of mine. Anyway, the pregnancies of both Lisbon and Grace in this fic is a blatant plot device, so don't bother knitting any booties out there, okay?

That being said, do you like this so far? Lol. This will be a multichapter, but it will be rather short—no more than five chapters, I imagine.

P.S.: Do yourself a favor and read "Secret Drawer" by hardly loquacious. It is truly a thing of beauty…


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to all who have come back to this AU taking yet another chance on my writing. Hope you are glad you did. Also, great to see so many new readers along with my loyal buddies out there. Please be sure to sign in when you review, and turn your PM's on so that we can get to know each other. I try to answer EVERY signed review I get! Thanks also for all the favoriting, and alerting you're doing out there, and for those who are going back and reading my old stuff. You are ending my year with a lovely boost.

And once again, you historians/California experts, please forgive any mistakes I make in geography and historical details. I plead poetic license ;).

**Chapter 2**

By the time Jane arrived again at Elk Grove station, his rented horse was already in a lather. No matter his pleas, the engineer would not stop the train, and if it wouldn't have made it harder to find Teresa with a broken leg, he would have jumped off. As it was, the next stop was seven miles away, and the moment the train pulled into Florin, he was off and running through the crowd, desperately trying to find a horse. The next train back to Elk Grove was an hour away, and Jane could not wait for it.

The stables across from the train station had horses and buggies for let, and he opted for the fastest mount, a strong gray mare, setting off on the seven mile trek at a dead run. As he rode, he tried not to think of what might be happening to Teresa, for if he did, he would begin to shake and the horse would get skittish, sensing his roiling emotions. So he rode on mindlessly, following the railroad until the outskirts of Elk Grove came into view. At the station, he jumped off his horse and tied it to the front post, pulling out his pocket watch to show to the station workers. A train had just pulled into the station, and he had to practically push his way through the small crowd assembling round the passenger car doors.

"Have you seen my wife?" he asked a porter, who was helping a family with a large trunk. "She was with a man with a white beard, got off the train bound for Sacramento."

The man stopped briefly, glanced at Jane, whom he immediately assumed must be a jealous husband, and smirked at Teresa's picture.

"Havin' trouble keepin' up with yer perty wife, eh?"

Jane tagged along beside the man while he hoisted the trunk on one large shoulder and walked toward the family's waiting wagon. Jane's eyes widened at his strength, trying not to be offended at his caustic words.

"It's not like that. She was abducted. I have a witness on the train—"

The porter paused to drop the trunk heavily into the back of the wagon. The man of the family tossed him a coin, thanked him, and helped his family into their conveyance.

"Would you just look closely at this picture, please?" Jane said tightly. The porter paused and took up Jane's watch.

"Nice watch," he commented, his eyes turning a little covetous. "I _may_a seen her…" he said meaningfully, hoping Jane would get his unspoken condition for information.

Jane reached into his pocket for a handful of silver. At the jingling sound, the porter nodded, then began to talk as Jane dropped a few coins into his greedy hand.

"Yeah, I seen her, 'bout an hour ago. Snuggled up real close to a bearded man in a prissy suit. No baggage, neither a them. Headed toward a waitin' carriage. I might be able to remember what it looked like…lots a buggies come through here, you understand."

Jane tried to control his anger at the extortionist, at all the time he was wasting, but paid him more coins nonetheless, both of them knowing Jane was clearly at his mercy.

"Carriage was made a mahogany wood, with two matched grays. Some big bug, likely. Oh, and it had some white writin' on the side."

"What did it say?" asked Jane intensely. The big man scratched his head.

"Don't rightly know. Not much fer readin' and writin' Now, 'rythmatic-"

"Anything else you remember?" interrupted Jane impatiently.

"Nah. But I will say, the lady looked sceered as a kitten."

"Well, why the hell didn't ya do somethin' about it?" Jane demanded angrily. "Asked the lady if she needed help?"

The porter's eyes narrowed dangerously. Nobody called him yeller and got away with it.

"Tweren't none a my affair. Big whig like that, all flannel-mouthed an setch. He were a limey—mighta been the king hisself."

"He was a foreigner?" Jane asked, fear gripping his heart anew. Bret Stiles was from England, so he'd heard.

"Yeah, a limey, like I say. Heard him call to his driver to get-up, and it sounded like that Yankee play I saw last summer at the opra house. Couldn't hardly understand then either."

"Which way were they headed?"

"Back toward Frisco," replied the porter, jerking his head in that direction.

Jane tossed him a few more coins. "Where's the closest telegraph office?"

"In the station." But Jane was already on his way.

"Good luck to ya," the porter called. "Pretty filly like that's worth watchin' out fer more close."

"Yeah. Thanks," replied Jane over his shoulder. He'd only taken two steps back toward the station when he caught sight of a familiar piece of white cloth laying in the dirt and mud. He leaned over, and with a shaking hand, picked up the lace-trimmed handkerchief, the precise monogram of _TJ _in the midst of a bouquet of embroidered spring flowers, now muddied by many footsteps and wagon wheels.

Memories flashed through his mind and he stood paralyzed in the middle of the milling crowd. He barely registered the whistled warning of the train as it prepared to depart.

"_Why are you wasting your time sewing new handkerchiefs?" he'd asked a few months back. "You've got a whole drawer full of them." _

_There wasn't a lazy bone in Teresa's body; she was always putting her time to good use, whether embroidering, mending, or teaching the children of the performers. He was always trying to get her to relax and let him take care of her._

"_They all say __**TL**__" she'd replied with a small smile__**, "**__and in case you don't remember, my monogram went through a monumental change recently."_

_He'd stood behind her where she sat beneath the sun canopy outside their motionless train car. He couldn't even remember now what town they'd been in, but it had been morning time, before the circus crowds had come for the noontime show._

_He'd put his hands on her shoulders, and she'd moaned as he rubbed them, the familiar sound shooting straight to his groin. Her arms and shoulders were sore a lot lately, from all her shooting practice. She was still hell-bent on becoming a trick shooter, wanted to be a part of the show Jane loved so much. He'd grinned, and he remembered leaning over, nuzzling into her neck just beneath the soft shell of her ear._

"_Oh yes, Mrs. Jane; I remember all right. But you know… we have two hours before I have to put on my Boy Wonder costume. Why don't you come back in the car and remind me what those pretty new letters really mean…"_

_She'd shivered a little at his whispered words, but methodically kept on sewing. He'd detected the mild tremble now of her fingers, not so nimble as he reminded her of the delights of the marriage bed. She remained otherwise stoic, so Jane knew it was time to up the ante. He'd traced her ear with the tip of his wet tongue, reveling in her uninhibited reaction. He hadn't had to see her face to know her eyes were closed, her breathing quickening, her hands stilled in her lap as she basked in his loving attention._

"_Mr. Jane," she breathed, leaning back into his chest to allow him better access to her neck. "You are trying very hard to distract me from my work, and idle hands are the devil's play—"_

"_Oh, sweetheart, come inside with me, and I promise my hands will be far from idle. Yours neither, I expect."_

_She'd stood up and turned to him, her handkerchief falling unheeded to the grass as she pulled his mouth down to hers in a searing kiss…_

The yell from the driver of an approaching wagon broke him from his reverie, and Jane stepped quickly aside. Heart pounding, he looked at the grimy linen in his hand. Had Teresa intentionally dropped it to help him find her? Yes, that sounded exactly like something his clever wife would do.

Reverently, he folded the battered material into a neat square before slipping it into his pocket, careless of the stains he was likely causing his finest frock coat. With new determination, he pulled his cowboy hat lower over his brow and moved toward the station house and the telegraph office within. He'd likely need help in rescuing Teresa, and he knew just the sheriff to call for.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Telegram for ya, Sheriff," said Andrew Yost from the door of the jailhouse. The young man adjusted his green visor importantly before handing Sheriff Wayne Rigsby the slip of paper.

Seven months before, after the Red John debacle, the previous sheriff, JJ LaRoche, had been quietly transferred to Stockton, helping to replace the contingent Red John and his gang had murdered on their way to Sacramento. You couldn't find a prouder man in the county than Wayne Rigsby, newly married to his childhood sweetheart (and the mayor's daughter), promoted to sheriff, and now, his wife was already expecting their first child. With Christmas only a few days away, life just couldn't get any better. Then Rigsby read the telegram.

_Teresa taken by Bret Stiles. Stop. Proceed to Elk Grove train station. Stop. Most urgent. Stop. _

_Patrick Jane._

"Sweet Jesus," Rigsby murmered.

"You want me to send a reply?" asked Andrew anxiously.

"Yeah. Reply that I'm on my way."

"Yes, sir."

"Trouble, Boss," asked Rigsby's new deputy, Luther Wainwright.

"Yeah. We need to make a quick trip to Elk Grove. Friend of mine's been kidnapped. Saddle up the horses—no time to wait for the train. I'll get Cho."

Kimball Cho, his best friend and saloon owner, had been made honorary deputy, volunteering his services whenever Rigsby was short-handed. Since he cared about their former teacher as much as Rigsby did, the new sheriff figured Cho would want to be in on it. He was right.

"He sure it was Stiles?" Cho asked, coming from behind the bar. It was early yet for the big drinkers and gamblers, so few patrons occupied the tables scattered throughout the saloon.

"Here, read the telegram. This is all I got."

Rigsby watched as his friend quickly perused the short message.

"I figure we ride hard to Elk Grove and see if we can help Jane track him," Rigsby continued. "I got no idea what we're walkin' into, and I don't like it much, but I don't see another choice."

"Yeah, no question we gotta go. I'll go to the stables, meet you front of the jailhouse. You tellin' Grace?"

They both worried that in her delicate condition, a shock might not be the best thing.

"I'll send word I have to work late. If something comes up, I'll send a telegram."

"Won't she worry when Miss Lisbon—uh, Mrs. Jane and Jane don't come in on the next train like they were supposed to?"

Rigsby sighed. "I'll tell her in the same note they've been delayed. There's gonna be hell to pay for pullin' one over, but I don't see's I've got a choice."

Cho nodded empathetically, then called for his new bouncer, a large man named Ron, who often doubled as bartender. "Got some business here with the sheriff," Cho told his employee. "You might have to close it down for me tonight."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Cho turned then toward the back of the saloon to his office. "See you in 'bout ten minutes," he said to Rigsby.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane rode his horse at a steady trot along the road to San Francisco, hoping Rigsby would think to stop in the telegraph office where he would receive the note he'd left. He couldn't wait in Elk Grove for the sheriff to come, not when his pulse ticked away the passing time louder than a grandfather clock. There were many side roads along the way that Stiles could very easily have taken, but Jane's instincts told him to keep going, and those instincts of his rarely steered him wrong.

He'd gone maybe five miles when he saw a large house set off from the main thoroughfare, a fine mahogany carriage with two matched grays parked in the circle drive. If Stiles were trying to hide, he was doing a terrible job of it. Jane's left hand tightened on the reins, and he reached with his right to pat the six-shooter he'd hurriedly bought in Elk Grove. Jane didn't like guns much, but he also was of the mind that it was better to be safe than woefully sorry. He turned the horse down the narrow dirt road, his heart clenching at the thought that Teresa might be in that house, at the awful possibility that he was riding into a trap.

As much as he'd love to storm into that house, gun ablazing, he realized it would be better to do a little reconnoitering first, so he tied his horse beneath a small grove of trees at the edge of the property and decided to come at the house from the rear.

There was a peach orchard in back that took up several acres. Jane went from tree to tree, making his way slowly to the mansion, gun drawn. He saw no one-no sentries, no sharpshooters on the roof, no welcoming committee of any kind. Jane's suspicions mounted at the same time that fear threatened to overtake him. If there were no one alive to guard, of course there would be no guards.

Finally arriving at the back of the house, he ran, ducking low, to a window. He tiptoed up to peep inside and saw a kitchen, unoccupied and dark. He moved to the side of the house and saw a room that likely would have been a bedroom, had it had any furniture in it. It was the same story in every room he looked into—completely empty, no furnishings or draperies at all. Of course, that was just the bottom floor, and he had yet to find the courage to look inside the front windows. He took a deep breath, and went around the corner to the front of the house.

The horses eyed him warily, but made no sound, so he took a slow peek at one edge of the huge bay window. Low and behold, there was Teresa, sitting alone in an empty parlor, save for the ladder-back chair she was tied to. His eyes widened in a mixture of relief and renewed fear. She looked all right, but her back was to him, and it was difficult to tell if she was unharmed. He ducked beneath the window and went to the door, which was ornately paned with stained glass. The matching bay window on the other side of the door showed yet another empty room, so Jane went back to the door, realizing what he had to do. This might be Stiles's intention all along, that he open the door only to have the former butler unload his bullets into Jane's waiting chest. But his instincts coincided with his heart now, both telling him that despite his fears, he should go into that house and rescue Teresa.

A feeling of calm settled over him as he reached out and turned the doorknob with a steady hand. He opened it only a crack and peered inside, then stuck his pistol in the opening, pushing the door wider and wider until he stood in the completely open doorway. He hadn't been shot. No yells of surprise greeted him. Abandoning all caution, Jane rushed toward the parlor.

He saw her face right away, and he was relieved to see she was as perfect to him as always. Her little straw hat was missing from the top of her head, however, and her sable hair had fallen from its neat bun to hang in unruly waves down her back. He was grateful to see that her green plaid dress, along with its impossibly long row of pearl buttons, seemed completely undisturbed. Her face was rosy, the single, sweet, perennial dimple still creasing one cheek. But it was her eyes that made him rush to her side. They were open, staring sightlessly straight ahead, the pupils so dilated as to block out the beautiful jade of her irises.

"Teresa," he whispered, dropping down to his knees before her. He waved a hand before her eyes but got no response-not a blink, no tracking of his movements. He recognized immediately what had been done to her, because he did this very thing in his sideshow act. She'd been mesmerized. At once he tried every way he knew to bring a person out of a trance—he snapped his fingers, clapped his hands, tapped her arms, shoulders and legs—but nothing would awaken those glossy eyes to the present. He realized in horror that the only one who could bring her back was the man who'd hypnotized her. Abruptly, he stood up again.

"Stiles!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Stiles!"

A/N: Yes, another cliffie! Hopefully it makes you want to read more, because hey, I'm not above blatant plot devices to secure more readers and more reviews. So, let me know if it's working by clicking that review button and letting me have it for leaving you in such suspense, yet again, lol. Seriously though, thanks for reading!

Also, to my readers from England: please forgive the characterization of Brits as "limeys". I hope you understand that that term was uttered by an uneducated, ignorant man. No offense was intended! Please keep reading!

P.S.: Another way to pass this long "Mentalist"-free hiatus: rent/buy "Margin Call!" It's out on DVD now. You'll get to see Simon Baker shaving shirtless and hear him use lots of lovely expletives, including my favorite, "F**k me" over and over again, lol. It actually is a great movie, and Simon has a deliciously heartless little role. What are you waiting for?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hope you all had a Merry Christmas! Family and the holiday took me away from writing for a few days, but here is the next chapter in this short fic. It's a little darker than I had at first uh, visualized, but I wanted to tie up the loose ends surrounding Bret Stiles, and that was not a happy subject. Thanks for all the great reviews. I promise to catch up on answering them very soon.

**Chapter 3**

Jane ran from room to room of the mansion, calling for Stiles to come out and face him like a man, but to no avail. Besides he and his wife, the house was vacant. Jane walked back down the grand staircase, a feeling of intense fear and anger threatening to overwhelm him. He went to Teresa and began gently untying the ropes that bound her to the chair.

"Teresa," he tried again, looking into her blank eyes. She didn't recognize him, didn't even seem to know he was there.

He helped her to her feet, and she stood automatically. He found that she would move with him anywhere he directed her, but if he let go of her arm, she would stop and stand still without his guidance, he hands formed into tight little fists. He wondered then if she could sit a horse. Stiles must have left on some errand and would likely be back soon to retrieve his captive. They'd best get a move on, but how?

Then Jane's eyes focused on the carriage outside the window where its horses waited patiently, also apparently abandoned.

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmured, a ghost of his old smile briefly lifting his lips. "I'm taking you home in style."

He'd take her to Sacramento, where hopefully he'd be able to figure out how to extract her from this trance. Jane knew the skills Stiles was employing with Teresa were way beyond simple hypnosis, way beyond Jane's mild tricks he employed during his act to make paying customers bark like a dog or do a funny jig to the amusement of the crowd. What frightened Jane most was that Stiles had somehow taken away Teresa's awareness, her mental responsiveness. Jane tried to comfort himself with the hope that if Stiles had been attempting to somehow implant behavioral suggestions, to manipulate her actions, he hadn't had time to do much damage. At least, that's what Jane hoped.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As Jane cautiously drove the carriage, it was difficult for him not to stop every few minutes to check on Teresa inside. With every rut and bump, he feared she might fall to the floor from the sitting position he'd placed her in on the plush cushion of the bench seat. He'd thought of tying her in there, but the idea was completely abhorrent to him, so he forced himself to drive slowly, hoping the heavily padded interior would keep her from injury.

They were nearly to Elk Grove when Jane spotted three riders in the distance, going hell for leather, picking up dust as their mounts' hooves pounded the packed dirt road. He moved the carriage farther to the right to give them more latitude, but as they rode closer, Jane was relieved to distinguish the familiar tall frame of one Wayne Rigsby. Jane removed his hat and waved it lest the three men pass him by in their haste to find him.

Jane realized the instant Rigsby recognized him, and Jane came to a slow halt at the same time his friends pulled on their reins in an effort to stop their speeding horses. Rigsby's mount reared a little in protest, and Cho and an unfamiliar deputy nearly crashed into them. When they'd regained control, the three men looked up at Jane in concern.

"Did you find her?" Rigsby asked without preamble.

"Yeah," Jane replied simply, tiredly. "She's inside." He jerked his head toward the carriage beneath him. Rigsby dismounted, fearing what he would find inside given Jane's morose demeanor.

"Is she all right?" asked Cho, emulating the sheriff and getting down from his horse. Jane jumped down from the driver's bench and stood near the door of the carriage, pausing, as if preparing them for the worst. Jane nodded to the new deputy, but turned to his old friends, no one concerned with introductions for the moment.

"No," he answered Cho's query, "Stiles has done…something to her."

Rigsby's eyes grew round with fear. "Did he-?"

Jane shook his head. "No. He didn't hurt her, not in body. She's not—well, not in her right mind."

Suddenly Jane felt unable to find the words to explain completely, so he opened the door, the midday light shining into the darkness of the interior for a moment until all eyes adjusted and focused on Teresa, sitting stiffly where Jane had left her, staring straight ahead without focus or surprise at her sudden visitors.

Rigsby glanced at Jane before kicking down the folded metal steps and climbing aboard. He sat in the seat opposite her, reaching out a tentative hand to touch her arm lightly.

"Miss Lisbon?" he prompted, forgetting her newly married name as he looked into her eyes. "It's me, Wayne. You all right, ma'am?"

When she didn't respond, Rigsby shot a startled look at Jane, who merely nodded his head, acknowledging that this was what he'd been trying to tell them.

"It's like she's shell shocked," Cho murmured. "I read about this happening to a lot of boys who came home after the War."

"No," Jane contradicted gently. "It's not shock. She's in some sort of trance. You ever seen anyone mesmerized?"

The young deputy behind him peered over the others' shoulders into the carriage.  
>"I seen it once in a circus sideshow. Man put someone under his spell, made the poor guy cluck like a chicken whenever the audience said <em>horse feathers. <em>Funniest damn thing I ever—"

Jane nodded, and Cho shot Wainwright a look of annoyance. The deputy had seen his show, but Jane didn't feel the need for once to brag over the brilliance of his act or introduce himself as the Boy Wonder.

"Exactly," Jane interrupted. "That's what's happened to my wife in there, only she won't respond to outside stimulation. It's like she's…lost." His voice broke a little at the end under the strain and fear. He cleared his throat. "Let's get her home. Maybe she'll come out of it when she's in familiar surroundings."

Rigsby emerged from the carriage. "Where'd you get this thing?" he asked, tapping on the expensive wood of the vehicle. "It looks like it belongs to a railroad baron."

"Stiles rode in it. Look at the writing on the side. Says it belongs to a carriage rental in Elk Grove. Porter at the station said it was waitin' for him when he and Teresa got off the train."

He went on to tell them how he'd found Teresa at the abandoned mansion.

"This rental place and the mansion would be good places to get clues about where Stiles mighta gone," Cho said, looking meaningfully at Rigsby.

"Yeah. We'll go on down the road piece and see what we can find out. Maybe he's come back by now." Rigsby shook his head in wonder. "I still can't believe old Stiles coulda pulled one over the whole town like he done. Never shoulda trusted a foreigner."

Cho's eyes narrowed, but Rigsby shrugged. "You ain't no foreigner. You're as American as me 'n' Grace. Why you-"

"At any rate, gentlemen," Jane said, trying to avert a childish argument, "I'm gonna get Teresa back to Sacramento. You all be careful at that mansion. Who knows how many men Stiles has got with him."

The three men went back to their horses. "See you at home, Jane," Rigsby called. "And tell Grace…well, tell her we'll be back as quick as we can." A shadow passed the younger man's face and Jane saw the clear concern there for his pregnant wife. Jane glanced at the open door of the carriage; he understood completely.

"Thank you for coming," Jane said quietly, the gratitude he felt for these men threatening to make him tear up in a very unmanly way.

"Don't thank me 'til that bastard is swingin' from a rope," Rigsby replied determinedly after settling again in his saddle.

"Hey," Jane called suddenly, "when you capture him, make sure you find out if there's some word or movement we can use on Teresa to bring her out of her trance."

"I'll beat it out of him if I have to," said Cho, in a rare display of temper.

Jane almost grinned, but instead nodded as the three men rode back down the road from where he'd just come. Alone with his wife once more, he turned to the carriage and climbed inside.

"Teresa? I don't want you to worry your pretty little head, you hear? You got those boys wrapped 'round those sweet fingers of yours, just like you have me. If that monster can be found, they're just the ones to do it."

He settled her back more securely against the lush padding of the seat, unable to resist sitting beside her a minute.

"Come back to me, sweetheart," he said softly. "I don't want to be alone again."

He caressed her cheek, then closed his eyes and kissed her lips. As much as it pained him that she didn't respond to his affections, he found he needed the physical contact to keep going. He squeezed her forearms gently before rising and ducking out the carriage door. With one last look of longing and worry, he shut the door and kicked up the steps again in preparation for travel.

Jane took a quick foray around the back of the carriage, patting the neck of the rental horse he'd tied behind the vehicle. He'd drop the animal back off in Florin on the way to Sacramento. He climbed back up to the seat with a sigh, clicking to the horses as he picked up their reins. He was torn between following the posse he'd summoned to track down Stiles and hurrying to get Teresa back to her family home. But ever since he'd killed Red John, he realized that she would always come first in his life now, along with their unborn child. Revenge would just have to be relegated to a distant second.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane reached the outskirts of Sacramento just after nightfall. Downtown looked beautiful at night, particularly this time of year. He noted that all the street lamps were lit, each festooned with pine boughs and red ribbon. As he drove into the residential area, he could hear music and laughter coming from many houses, could see the candlelit Christmas trees through several windows as the citizens celebrated the approaching holiday. Jane hunched down into his frock coat, the night chilly, his hands nearly numb as they held the reins.

He thought of Teresa inside the carriage, how he'd bundled her up in a lap blanket he'd found beneath the seat. They'd stopped in Florin to return the horse, and he'd found a café where he'd bought some broth for her. He could not get her to drink, the liquid merely dribbling out the sides of her mouth, and he feared she must be starving, imagined the babe within her shriveling to nothing with hunger. It was an illogical thought, given it had been less than a day since she'd eaten, but he remembered well how Angela had complained of being constantly famished when she'd carried Charlotte. Teresa and their child needed to eat, which only made Jane's desperation grow to find a way to pull her out of the darkness.

He tried not to think again of the chamber pot incident, how embarrassed Teresa would be if she'd had any cognizance of what was going on around her. Another side effect of pregnancy was certainly the more frequent need of a privy, and Jane wondered if it might have been less embarrassing for her had he simply allowed her to wet herself. But he'd drawn the curtains of the carriage, shut the door, and pulled up her skirts before helping her upon the pot. He'd looked away as she'd eventually relieved herself, her first real interaction in hours with the outside world, albeit merely instinctive, he was sure. The act in itself heartily comforted him, even though successive attempts to feed her failed miserably. She was still in there somewhere; he need only find the door to let her out.

He drew up in front of the Lisbon family home with much relief, to find Grace at the door, opening it before he'd even gotten down from the driver's seat. She was great with pregnancy, although her height made her look more regal than rotund, and she stepped lightly down the front stairs before Jane could make it to stop her, or at least help her.

"Jane!" she called anxiously. "I just got a telegram from Wayne in Elk Grove—"

"Is everything all right?" he interrupted, unmindful for once of being a gentleman and not talking over a lady.

"Yes. He said you were on your way in a carriage of all things, and would explain everything. What's going on? Did you miss the train? Why is Wayne in Elk Grove?"

They met on the walkway leading up to the house, and Grace grabbed Jane's hands in a surprisingly tight grip. She knew something was wrong, and no doubt felt helpless in her unwieldy condition.

_Thanks for passin' the buck, Rigsby, _Jane thought in mild irritation. Now he had to deal with two uncontrollable females. He gently extricated his hands and removed his hat, running an impatient hand through his matted hair.

"I'll explain everything inside, Grace. Let me help you back in, and I'll get

Teresa-"

"What's wrong with Teresa?" Jane could see even in the dim light of the street lamp her color rising as she became increasingly upset.

"Shh, Grace, you must be calm." He guided her back toward the steps and held her hand as he helped her back up to the porch. "Go on inside. Wayne will have my hide if I allow you to stay long out in this cold."

"I'm not a china doll, Mr. Jane," she said, annoyed at his condescension.

"Yeah, I know, ma'am, but I am, and I really wouldn't want to be broken by a pummeling from your husband. Now, scoot on in…please, Grace."

She reluctantly obeyed, but stood just inside the door, watching apprehensively as he returned to the carriage. He pulled down the steps, opened the door, then went inside. He reappeared in the entryway, her former teacher in his arms. She couldn't tell from that distance and in the relative darkness what was wrong with Teresa, but she knew the petite woman would never allow herself to be carried unless she was seriously incapacitated. She and Grace were much alike in that way. They also both hated being left in the dark by men trying to protect them.

She stepped aside as Jane carried Teresa inside the warmth of the cozy house, and he went unerringly to the parlor, carefully setting his wife down on the familiar settee.

"Miss Lisbon," Grace began when she saw Teresa's open eyes, lowering herself gingerly beside her. Jane didn't correct her use of her maiden name; old habits and all. He also didn't immediately explain Teresa's condition, hoping that maybe her old surroundings and her former student might somehow trigger her reawakening. He stood by and watched hopelessly as Teresa gave no indication that she knew where she was or whom she was with.

"Teresa?" she tried again, shaking her arm a little, and looking her straight in the eyes. She turned to Jane in dismay. "What's wrong with her?"

"Bret Stiles got her. Some sort of revenge for my killing his fellow gang member, I imagine."

"Mr. Stiles? Are you certain?" It was still difficult to believe that the genteel butler who had served her family loyally for so long had been revealed to be a murderer and a master manipulator.

He nodded. "Fairly certain. All the evidence points to him."

He went on to describe what had happened. He did so calmly, without inflection, as if someone else had just lived the past several horrible hours. When he was finished, Grace looked from him back to her teacher and friend. She threw her arms around her, quiet tears falling down her peach-like cheeks, much fuller now in pregnancy though certainly no less radiant, observed Jane dispassionately. The fact that Teresa did not return the embrace only made the young woman's tears fall more quickly.

Jane sat in a nearby chair, the otherwise joyful scent of fresh pine from the decorated tree filling his nose as he watched his own anguish replay on Grace's face. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief as a gentleman would on such an occasion, but, finding Teresa's dirty one where he had left it that morning was almost his undoing. His sight became blurry, and he looked away, forgetting his manners once again in his helplessness.

"Jane?" said Grace a few moments later, her voice heavy with tears. He focused again on the two women, his eyes following Grace's to Teresa's open hand. He'd tried in vain to pry open her hands earlier, but they'd remained in tight fists, almost as if they'd been glued shut, and he'd given up lest he hurt her. Now, he could see what had caught Grace's attention: a small, rolled up slip of paper.

He rose and kneeled before his wife, glancing into her dull eyes before unrolling the paper, warm, crumpled, and slightly damp from her palm. It was a simple drawing of a human eye, with rays like the sun radiating from it. Beneath the eye was one neatly printed word: _Visualize._

He read it in puzzlement, then, his heart picking up speed with sudden realization, Jane looked into Teresa's eyes and said the word aloud. Like he had snapped his fingers, she was suddenly…back.

"Jane?" Teresa said, befuddlement creasing her forehead, looking about the familiar room in confusion. "Grace?"

"Oh, Teresa," he said, the relief coursing through him in shivering waves as he pulled her roughly into his arms, trembling as he held her. "Oh, God."

He pulled away from her as she continued to sit stiffly, no doubt trying to process what was going on. He laughed at her expression, then he kissed her lips, uncaring of their witness as he renewed his connection with the woman he loved.

He felt her kissing him back after a moment, and he almost sank to the floor with her in happiness. A delicate sniffle from Grace broke his own spell and he sat back on his heels again, taking Teresa's hands in his.

"What happened? How did I get here?" she asked him hoarsely.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

She knitted her brow in concentration. "Stiles!" she exclaimed after a moment. "He—he abducted me from the train. Oh, Jane, I was so frightened, so scared for our-!" She swallowed and glanced self-consciously at Grace before continuing, her voice much calmer. "He said he was taking me as you had taken one of his own. He said I was to be his new wife, his Chosen One. He said I—I would come to love him more than I could possibly imagine loving anyone. He took me to a big house, and then I…everything is a bit hazy."

"What's _Visualize?" _ Grace asked curiously.

Teresa's face clouded in painful remembrance as Bret Stiles's words came back to her, like the refrain of a long-forgotten song. "It's what he kept repeating to me, over and over. He said it meant that our minds had no limits, that it marked the door to our deepest desires. That if we focused our thoughts, we could have everything we ever wanted. I told him I wanted for nothing already, except to be home, with you," she said, looking with infinite love at her husband's dear face. "He only laughed at me and continued repeating that word over and over..."

Jane squeezed her hands. "Shh…sweetheart. You're safe now. Safe and warm, and here with me."

A/N: Okay, one more chapter to go. I promise it will end on a much more uplifting note. Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter.


	4. Conclusion

A/N: This could probably have been divided into two chapters, but I just didn't want to stop writing, so here is a longer than usual chapter for you. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading, and for all the lovely review I received for this story. I'll be answering them very soon. Happy New Year to you all!

**Chapter 4: Conclusion**

Grace was in the kitchen making Teresa and Jane tea and a snack of bread and cheese, Jane suddenly very insistent that his wife eat. The couple sat on the settee together, Teresa for once unopposed to his display of affection as he held her left hand tightly in his right, his thumb lightly massaging her wedding ring over and over. He couldn't stop looking at her, marveling at her elfin beauty, her bright green eyes, even stealing a warm kiss when Grace's back was turned. Teresa breathed words of love against his lips, and he trembled against her.

He would never get used to the feeling of almost losing her—and he was that his past actions had once again put her in that position. So he took her into his arms and inhaled the spicy fragrance of her hair, closing his eyes and imagining the babe inside of her, impatient for the moment when they were completely alone and she felt comfortable enough to tell him about it.

"I sure hope Wayne and Kimball find Mr. Stiles," Grace called from the kitchen. "He has a lot to answer for, especially for what he did to you, Teresa with all that _Visualize _nonsense—"

The trick shooter training had made Teresa very quick on the draw, Jane thought absently, when he suddenly felt the cold, hard metal of his own gun pressing into his side. She'd pulled it from his holster quicker than the most experienced gunslinger. He gasped at the same time he heard the soft click of the hammer being drawn back, and he pulled away slowly, just enough to see that the blankness had returned to Teresa's eyes.

"Grace," he said softly, risking a glance at their hostess, who paused on the threshold to the parlor at his low voice, the tea tray held before her rounded belly. Immediately sensing danger, she met his eyes, saw the fear there and almost dropped the tray.

"It would seem that Teresa is pushing my gun into my ribs, entranced again by your Mr. Stiles."

"What?" she gasped. "What—what can we do?"

"Well, you, my dear, must remain calm and go back into the kitchen where it is safe."

"No!"

"Now, Grace, please." He grunted at the insistent push of the weapon, relieved when Grace thought better and left him with his wife. He flinched when he heard the clatter of the tray as she set it on the dining room table.

"Teresa," he whispered, staring deeply into her eyes. He wondered what she was waiting for, why she didn't just pull the trigger and be done with it. "Sweetheart, put down the gun." When she remained frozen, he realized she was waiting for further instruction. Stiles hadn't been quite finished manipulating her.

All the tricks he had learned long ago from a gypsy witch ran through his mind. She'd explained in her own way the difference between hypnosis and mind control, an important and dangerous distinction to remember. Words had the power of magic, she had said, her broken English stilted and difficult to grasp at times. But Jane still recalled what she'd told him about pulling someone out of a thrall.

_It is the power of three, handsome one. Three times to enthrall. Three times to control. Three times to awaken…Use your hand to guide them to the present._

"Grace," he called calmly. "How many times have we said Stiles's word from Teresa's palm?"

Her face appeared from behind the wall of the kitchen, her eyes wide with fear.

She was staring at him, nonplussed at the odd question, but she quickly pulled herself together and considered her reply. "Uh, three, I think."

Jane nodded. "That's what I was thinking. It is her trigger word, which is an ironic term, come to think of it," and his smile flashed incongruously as he glanced down at the location of his wife's right index finger. His heart was thumping madly, and he willed himself to remain steady in his resolve.

"What are you going to do?" Grace asked fearfully.

"Say the magic word, of course."

"But what if you're wrong?" she asked breathlessly. "What if it makes her shoot you?"

Jane shrugged. "Then you'll have quite the story to tell to your husband, ma'am."

He gently disentangled his right hand from Teresa's left, relieved that she showed no reaction, and he reached into the watch pocket of his vest methodically pulling out his gold timepiece. Slowly at first, he brought up the watch, holding it by its fob before her eyes. He allowed it to swing back and forth, as if it were at the end of a short pendulum.

"Visualize, Teresa. Visualize. Visualize." And then he lowered his watch and lightly tapped her arm with his left hand.

He watched her face, felt the hardness of the weapon at his side, felt the warmth of her nearness, held his breath and steeled himself against the pain that would come if this didn't work. Then suddenly, she blinked and looked at him.

"Jane?" she said, disoriented. Her eyes dropped to the weight in her hand and she moved instinctively, as if unexpectedly realizing she held a snake. Her finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger, and the gun fired.

The house filled with the deafening sound of the shot, the sharp scent of gun smoke, and the screams of two women. Teresa watched in horror as Jane lay on the floor where he'd fallen, the smoking weapon still clutched in her hand. She threw it on the couch and dropped down beside him.

He was breathing, though heavily, and she turned him over as Grace rushed to the parlor.

"Jane!" Teresa said, shaking his arm. She could see no blood, but that didn't ease her terror at what she might have done to him. His eyes were tightly closed and she shakily moved his hands that were clutched over his left side. A large, jagged hole went clean through the side of his frock coat where the bullet had passed harmlessly into her mother's prized carpet. She put her fingers through it absently. He must have moved just enough to avoid the trajectory of her bullet.

"Jane?" she repeated, this time a question. Perhaps he was uninjured, but he could still be suffering from shock. She knew she sure was.

When he didn't answer her second cry, she realized with sudden anger that he was shaking with silent laughter. She hit his arm as hard as she could. He yelped, but laughed even harder.

"Why didn't you answer me? I thought I'd killed you!"

Grace, eyes wide with her own shock, sat heavily in a chair with relief, clutching her stomach protectively.

"Lord have mercy," she said on an exhalation of the breath she'd been holding.

Jane, realizing he was putting the two pregnant women through undue stress, moved slowly to a sitting position on the floor, reaching out to take his wife's trembling hand. He sobered at once.

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?" He spared a glance at Grace. "Both of you?"

A sudden knock came at the door, and Grace rose awkwardly to her feet to peer through the window. It was her neighbor, concerned no doubt at the sound of gunfire.

"It's nothing. An accident. Everyone's all right, I assure you," Grace told their visitor.

The man looked past Grace to the couple on the floor, eyes narrowing suspiciously when he beheld the notorious Miss Lisbon, nay, Jane. Everyone knew she and her peddler husband had run off and joined the circus, of all things. Apparently they were back, causing trouble again.

"Aw, well. You all be more careful," he said, before tromping back down the front steps in annoyance, mumbling about being awakened from a sound sleep by folks playing with guns.

Jane laughed again at the absurdity of it all, his relief coming out in inappropriate laughter. He stood up and held a hand down to help his wife up to sit again on the settee.

"Why was I holding your gun?" Teresa asked him.

"Stiles had planted a suggestion in your mind, triggered by that word from the paper in your hand. The suggestion was apparently that you shoot me after you heard it three times."

"What?"

Jane nodded. "I reckon I can mesmerize you again and take away the trigger word, now I know what it is."

"So, I won't suddenly shoot you in bed at night?" she demanded, fear harshening her tone.

"Not unless I say the word in my sleep," he teased, but she didn't laugh. He reached out and caressed her cheek fondly. "I'll fix this, I promise."

"This man is really dangerous," Grace said from her place back in the chair. "I hope Wayne is all right," she said, echoing all their fears.

"Wayne's a good man and a fine sheriff," Jane reassured her. "Bret Stiles doesn't stand a chance 'gainst him and Cho."

But deep down, they all knew it was just a bundle of wishful thinking.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He made love to her as if she were a delicate flower, despite her whispered pleas to increase the pace, increase the passion. He ignored her desires for once, taking his time and kissing her everywhere, paying special attention to her stomach. Her hands went to his head as he paused, laying his head there in the midst of their burgeoning excitement, and she felt the softness of his hair as he wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer. He turned his head and kissed her navel, and then he looked up at her, his misty eyes glistening in the low lamp light. It was then that Teresa knew that he knew.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, encouraging him to slide up her body again so she could kiss his full lips, feel his warm body covering hers. The urgency that she'd wanted was suddenly there, and as his tongue entered her mouth, his body joined with hers.

Afterwards, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing heavily, inhaling her spicy scent.

"How long have you known?" she whispered in equal parts amusement and annoyance. Her hand idly trailed up and down his cooling back as she felt his wide grin against her neck.

"Awhile," he sighed, sorry he'd stolen her thunder. He slipped his hand between them to rest on her soft belly.

She shook her head in wonder. "Why do I even bother keeping things from you?"

He raised his head then, the beauty of his smile nearly overwhelming so close to her face. "That's what I've tried to tell you since the day we met. I'm glad it's finally gotten through that thick head of yours."

She sobered as she looked at him, and his smile faded as he saw her sudden distress.

"I—I didn't know how you would feel about it. I was afraid—"

"Afraid? You don't think I would want a baby with you?" At his truly dismayed expression, Teresa felt her body relaxing again. She'd been wrong to be worried.

"I didn't think you'd want any child again. I thought it might be too painful for you. I would never want to replace—"

"Listen, sweetheart," he interrupted, his mouth a grim line. "It's true, no one can replace Charlotte in my heart, but I have plenty of room there for a child of ours, who will just have to squeeze his way in around all the space you're takin' up."

He kissed her lightly with a small smile, and Teresa felt her eyes watering with relief. Then she looked at him, eyes narrowed.

"He?" she questioned. "You think it's a boy?"

Jane nodded. "I'd stake my hat on it."

"Those are pretty good odds, Mr. Jane. Fifty-fifty? I don't think you're going too far out on a limb for that bet."

He chuckled. "Well, I'm a hundred percent sure, so you'll just have to trust the Boy Wonder on this one. I know all and see all, remember?"

Teresa looked at her conman husband affectionately. "I've been around your showman's act for months, and I think I know most of your shyster tricks by now. Don't even try to con me, Jane. Boy Wonder, indeed," she scoffed.

He grinned knowingly. "You just wait and see, oh ye of little faith."

"Don't quote the Bible to me, peddler man—"

But she was interrupted with the distant sound of the front door opening. Jane tensed, jumping up from the warmth of his wife to grab his pants and shirt and pull them on.

"Stay here," he cautioned in an urgent whisper. He reached for his gun and the lamp where they rested on the bureau, and padded barefoot toward their upstairs bedroom door. He cautiously opened it, peering out into the darkness, then he slipped out and closed the door protectively on his wife. As quietly as he could, he stepped down the wooden stairs.

"Rigsby?" he called softly, hopefully. His light found the foyer, and the sheriff tiredly hanging up his hat and coat by the front door. They'd been gone two days.

"Jane," he said dully. "Glad you made it home. How's Miss Lisbon?"

"I managed to accidentally pull her from her trance. Stiles put a strong spell on her. She nearly shot me."

Rigsby's eyes widened.

"I'll explain everything later," Jane said. "Did you get Stiles?"

Rigbsy shook his head woefully. "No, the bastard never returned to his house. Found out it belonged to some big wig railroad man who just bought it. He didn't take kindly when he heard he'd had squatters in his fine new mansion. We went back to Elk Grove, questioned the workers there. Nobody ever heard a that porter you described. I think he musta worked for Stiles. We went to the carriage renters and the man there said he'd been paid to have a carriage waiting at every stop between Elk Grove and Sacramento. Reckon Stiles was lyin' in wait for the best time to take Miss Lisbon off the train. We rode all the way to Frisco 'n' back, but saw neither hide nor hair a the limey rip."

"Dammit," Jane muttered under his breath. "Well, I'm much obliged for all your efforts. Sorry it turned out to be such a wild goose chase."

"I'm sorry he ain't strung up by now," Rigsby said angrily. Both men heard the sound of the first floor bedroom opening, and Grace emerged cautiously, adjusting her wrapper around her full figure with one hand while she carried a lamp with the other.

"Wayne!" she exclaimed, relief flooding her worried expression. She rushed as best she could to her husband, who met her with two long strides halfway across the parlor. They embraced heartily, and when they began to kiss, Jane smiled softly, averting his eyes as he went quietly back up the stairs to comfort his own wife.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Christmas Eve morning dawned cold and clear. Jane awoke to find Teresa's side of the bed nearly as cold, and he moaned a little in frustration, having hoped to start the day in a much warmer way. He settled for rolling to her side and burying his face in her pillow. Then he began to listen to the tantalizing sounds and smells wafting up from downstairs. There was light feminine laughter, brief clatterings of tin pans. The aroma of eggs and toast. And was that…_pie_?

His grin replaced the brief disappointment of finding his wife had abandoned their bed, and Jane arose, quickly washing in the cold water of the washbasin. He shivered as he dried off, then threw on his clothes and pulled on his boots, ready now to meet the morning.

What he found downstairs was more than worth the reluctant effort to get out of bed. The two women stood in the kitchen, Teresa industriously rolling out a pie crust, Grace busy at the stove, stirring at the scrambling eggs with a spatula. He stood and watched the idyllic scene a moment, as his wife laughed at something Grace shared about the horrors of early pregnancy. The cat was out of the bag on that score, apparently. He leaned against the door jam, arms crossed in front of him, his lips stretched into a beguiled smile. It was some minutes before his wife noticed his presence. She blushed at the sight of him, and they both remembered their night of passion, then the even greater pleasure they'd shared discussing plans for their baby.

"Good morning, ladies," he said, turning on the charm. He walked over to Grace and kissed her cheek (to which she colored prettily), then turned to his wife, laughing at the flour on her nose and cheek. Much to her consternation, he brushed off the offending white stuff before whispering in her ear:

"Messy women make the best lovers."

She swatted at him with her dusty hands but he sidestepped her and caught her up in a hug that had Grace suddenly extremely focused on scooping the eggs onto a nearby platter.

The rest of the day was spent receiving visitors (serving them pie), and thanking them for their gifts of fresh honey, fruit, and nuts. Everyone tried to forget the events of the previous few days and it was surprisingly easy to do, given the excited preparations for the holiday dinner the next day. Cho was invited, as well as Teresa's brothers and their families. Grace had invited her parents days before, but they continued to find fault with her choice of husband, so they politely refused. Rigsby had watched in dismay as she'd cried for hours.

By nighttime, both women were exhausted, and Rigsby returned home from the jailhouse to find them sitting in the parlor as Jane served them peppermint tea. It didn't take much coaxing to allow their husbands to bundle them off to bed. The house grew quiet, the scents of cinnamon and baked bread lingering in the air.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane awoke to the sharp, cold sting of a knife against his throat. His eyes flew open and he beheld the figure of Bret Stiles leaning over him, a look of murderous intent in his bright blue eyes. His white beard shown brightly in the moonlight streaming through the frosted windows, and Jane had the surreal thought that he was being visited by a macabre manifestation of St. Nick, or perhaps the ghost of Christmas past.

A horrible thought occurred to Jane and he reached a hand beneath the covers to feel a very warm, very alive Teresa, breathing softly beside him. He looked up into Stiles's eyes again, his own watering and pleading, mouthing one word: _Please. _

Stile's white teeth appeared in the slit of his beard, and he laid his finger aside his nose mockingly, shaking his head in amusement. Jane felt the knife press harder against his jugular, felt the pain and then the wetness of his own blood. He closed his eyes, willing it to be over quickly, and an eerie calm suffused him.

If he were to die now, his biggest regret would be that his child would not have had a father, much like Jane had missed the tender touch of a mother's love. From what Stiles had told Teresa, he would simply take her to be part of his corrupt religion, and she would likely be made a slave to the desires of this murdering Satan. But at least she would be alive, and perhaps Stiles would spare his son, allow him to grow to be another of his loyal minions.

It was only a brief instant that all these thoughts swept through Jane's mind, and he suddenly prayed Stiles would kill Teresa too rather than subject her to a life of mental enslavement.

"Do it quick," Jane whispered, bravely meeting the man's eyes again.

Stiles nodded and gripped the knife more tightly.

The gunshot came from the open door behind them, and suddenly the full, bloodied weight of Bret Stiles fell on top of Jane, the knife blade sticking into the pillow, perilously close to Jane's right ear. Beside him, Teresa sat up with a startled scream and Jane lay there as if paralyzed, his breath cut off by the dead man laying across his chest.

Rigsby was there in a flash, pulling Stiles off him, allowing the lifeless body to fall to the floor with a heavy thump. Jane still did not move, his heart pounding, his eyes wide in shock.

"Jane? You all right?" Rigsby asked, coming closer. Jane forced himself to focus on his savior in baggy drawers still holding a smoking six-shooter before him. He would have smiled had he not been so shaken with reaction.

"Yeah," he managed, attempting to sit up. Teresa was busy feeling him everywhere for injury, and when her hand came to his throat, she pulled it away with a gasp, the warm wetness of his blood covering her fingers.

"He's hurt," she cried. "Wayne, light the lamp." As a teacher she'd dealt with many medical emergencies, and she lapsed automatically into nursing mode as she ordered her former student to do her bidding. She pressed on Jane's neck to staunch the blood, which Jane already felt trickling down his bare chest.

Rigsby fumbled for the matches and lit the lamp, and the image of his teacher in her thin night rail drew his attention before he hastily looked away and began tearing a pillow case in strips as she'd directed him.

Grace's white face appeared at the door and she took in all that had happened in one glance. "Oh, my Lord!" she said, moving to the bedside where her husband and friend were leaning over Jane. She sidestepped the familiar form on the floor, shuddering as she saw the bloody wound on his back.

"Stiles," she whispered in horror, then: "Jane! Oh, no!"

"I'm fine, Grace. Don't be alarmed," he murmured softly. "You should sit down."

"He's right, Grace," said Teresa, lifting Jane's head gently so she could bind his wound. "You've had too many shocks these last few days."

"Please, darling," Rigsby concurred, going to his wife and helping her down into a corner chair.

"We should get you to Doctor Steiner," Teresa was telling Jane. "I think you need stitches."

"That old bag of bones," Jane said caustically, remembering his last experience with the crotchety old doctor. "I'd rather bleed to death."  
>Rigsby's lips quirked. Steiner was definitely not one of his favorite people either, but he was the best one around.<p>

"Please," said Teresa quietly, her warm hand cupping his cheek. He looked into her bright green eyes and nodded, though he cringed at the pain of his cut throat.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Christmas dinner was a solemn affair, except for the laughter of the children. Teresa's numerous nieces and nephews filled the house with much-needed cheer, but by the time their company left, she was feeling decidedly run down. Rigsby and Grace had retired early as well, leaving her and Jane to sit and gaze tiredly at the candlelit Christmas tree in the parlor.

They sat on Jane's favorite settee, his arm pulling her to his side. The stitches on his neck felt tight and smarted painfully when he moved his neck, but the angry cut was covered by a clean white dressing. He'd a have a scar there as a constant reminder, Steiner had told him, the old witchdoctor.

Jane could hardly believe it was over, that he could finally put aside thoughts of Red John, Bret Stiles, and the horrors of his past. Sitting beside him, her legs curled beneath her in an uncharacteristically unladylike manner, was his future. It would soon be a new year, and he allowed himself to daydream about the days to come.

They would find the winter grounds of the circus train in Rancho Malibu, and he'd take his new wife to the home he'd never gotten to share with his first. Angela would have found it extremely wasteful to let their beautiful home lie unused, the whitewash wearing slowly away by the wind and the sand and the years, the untended wood rotting from the dampness of the ocean breezes. Teresa would love the house with its vast view of the Pacific, and their baby would thrive growing up so close to the fresh air and water.

"Do you want to stay with the circus, after the baby is born?" he asked Teresa suddenly. He felt her stiffen beneath his arm.

"It is the life you love," she said, her eyes still focused on the tree.

Jane sighed. "You've enjoyed being back in a house that doesn't move, haven't you? A home of your own."

She couldn't lie to him. "Yes. But you wouldn't be happy staying in one place, would you? You'd grow restless and want to see the country. You thrive on the sound of applause. If we kept you from that, you might come to regret us."

Jane moved so he could see her face. "No, Teresa. Don't ever think that. I am so grateful for you both that I would do anything in the world to keep you happy, to keep you safe. The circus life is really no life for a mother and her babe. You need a stable home, a stable husband."

Her mouth formed a small smile. "Stable? You? Never that. I left Sacramento because I was tired of the predictability of small-town life. You offered me excitement and new experiences; I don't know if I could give that up now. Well, at least not completely."

"Would you compromise then, Mrs. Jane? Spend our winters and springs in our house; the summers and falls with the circus?"

She nodded with a smile. "That sounds like a fair deal, Mr. Jane. So long as our child loves the life as much as his father, that is. We'll have someone else's opinion to consider soon, you know."

"Someone no doubt as stubborn as his mother." He settled back against the settee and kissed her temple.

She ignored his little barb for one of her own. "But you must promise me that you won't teach him to be a swindler as you once were. No picking pockets, no cheating at cards, no mixing simple herbs and calling them miraculous elixirs or the like. Teach him skills to entertain, to amuse, to inspire. Teach him…magic…"

"Like this?" Jane asked, pretending to reach behind her ear and bringing forth a small Christmas rose, it's tiny white bud tipped in red and encased in bright green leaves. She laughed in pleasant surprise, then took the flower and brought it to her nose, inhaling its delicate scent.

"Yes," she said. "Useful skills like that to charm the little girls. And I'll teach him to shoot like a marksman," she finished confidently.

"Because he'll need to defend himself against all the little girls."

"Especially if he has your devil-may-care smile."

"Or your glorious green eyes."

They both grinned at their silly musings.

"He will have everything, Teresa," he said solemnly. "He'll have all of me, unlike I had of my own father. Unlike Charlotte and Angela had of me."

She reached for his hand and squeezed it with a smile, wanting to prevent him from falling into a mood fraught with self-recriminations and guilt.

"All of you? That's all little Aloisius and I could ever ask."

"Aloisius? What's the matter with Patrick, Junior?"

"That would just insure the apple wouldn't fall far enough from the tree."

Her glorious green eyes sparkled at him with mischief, and his devil-may-care smile caused her heart to pick up speed. In one quick movement, he had her on her back, his body pinning hers beneath him as he lowered his lips to her sassy mouth, heedless now of his injuries, both of the present and of the distant past.

**The End**

A/N: So now, with this final chapter, I officially end my Western AU. I really hope you enjoyed revisiting them in this time and place. I should tell you also that I won't be continuing my other series that began with "Red Ryder" and ended with "Red Velvet Box." I'm looking to find interesting new ways to explore the Jisbon relationship. First, of course, I'll be continuing my other current fic, "Fire With Fire," which is set during Season 1. I hope you get the chance to read the first chapter before I have the next posted, hopefully in the next day or two. Thanks so much for reading, for favoriting, for reviewing. You fabulous readers are the reason I keep going at this. (Well, you and my obsessive desire for Jisbon, that is!) See you all again soon.


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